Heathens and Christians
by pokey jr
Summary: A short piece based on the wonderful play 'Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf' by Edward Albee. The assignment was to write a conversation between George and Martha that took place the morning after the night during which the play was set.


**George and Martha's conversation the next morning**

_Martha is sitting on the couch in her nightgown. George comes in, wearing his Sunday best._

G: Good morning.

M: …hmm…

G: I'll have to see him a work tomorrow.

M: You're in the History department… and he's in…

G: Biology…

M: Biology, I forgot. Are you even in the same building?

G: He'll seek me out…looking for advice…

M: Or an explanation of last night.

G: Don't, Martha.

_Martha acquiesces, then changes subject_

M: What're you all dressed up for?

G: It's Sunday.._(Martha does not understand)_…I'm going to church.

M: Church?

G: Is it so astounding?

M _(starting to laugh)_: George…we don't… we're not…when was the last time…

G: The last time we were at a church together, Martha, was the day of our wedding…I'm sure you remember. But I occasionally go during the day, between classes.

M: Why?

G: Why, Martha? Well, I…being a history bog…don't usually stop to consider theological matters…I started out going because it was relaxing…

M: I meant why didn't you tell me about it?

G _(walks over to her, stands behind the couch, puts his hands on her shoulders)_: There are many unanswered questions in life, Martha…

M: Don't give me that BS.

G _(softly massaging Martha's neck and shoulders)_:…most of them with answers that are beyond your comprehension.

M: …like the name of that movie with Bette Davis…

G: Where she works in a grocery store..

M:…and wherever you got that dreadful umbrella gun.

G:…parasol. Chinese parasol.

M: Why those two got married in the first place…

G: You've already heard, in a roundabout way. Although…

M: What…?

G: …if you knew what I know, you'd be even more confused…confounded at the irony of it all..

M: What, George?

G: Well…you mustn't let on to the slim-hipped twit that you know, but…well, I don't know if I should be the one to tell…

M: No more games, George.

G: You heard…or rather, perhaps you remember Honey and Nick saying last night, that they couldn't conceive? Well, one of the questions is: why don't they have a child?' and the…answer is not because they couldn't…conceive.

M: …couldn't conceive…they didn't want…my…gods and goddesses…she's been having…abortions?

G: Aahhh, Martha. You've never been prudent but…you could've gotten a degree…

M _(turns around angrily to face him, but still sitting)_: Why didn't you tell me?

G: Well, if we can… recall…the situation at the time, we may remember that we two, locked in immortal combat, had neither the patience nor the interest to…bother ourselves with the sordid affairs of the middle-weight boxing champion and his slim-hipped wife.

M: You should've told me!

G: And what would it have achieved, at the time?

M: I have a- a right. As your wife. I have a right…

G: Yes, of course you have a right, as the eternal overseer of my existence-

M: Overseer! So it's customary for 'overseers' to do housework while their husbands languish in the history department…never promoted, choosing to go to church instead…in the middle of the day!

G: Going to church is nothing to be ashamed of.

M _(settles back against the couch, facing away from George)_:…he got his Masters at nineteen…

G: He also married an idiot.

M: Yes, but…he…but he…oh, nevermind. He did marry an idiot. A witless statue.

G: She is in proportion, though.

M: Oh, quiet, you. She has the proportions of a sharpened twig.

G: A toothpick, you mean.

M: No, I said a sharpened twig. And she has all the intelligence of the gardening boy I once married and none of the- Aren't you going to join me, George?

G: I'd rather not, Martha. Services begin in fifteen minutes, and I deplore-

M: Services! I thought you were kidding about that.

G: I couldn't be more serious.

M: Oh, of course you couldn't, Rosencrantz.

G: I assure you, my thoughts could not be more grave. Now, dear Guildenstern, will you not accompany me to the Church?

M: George, you kidder…

G: S'il vous plait, Madame, venez avec moi.

M: Give me another backrub.

G: I'm terribly sorry, but I do not give backrubs to Heathens.

M: George…

G: Please, Martha…go put on some clothes.

M: All right, all right. You better tell me all about what Honey said on the way there, okay?

G: Yes, yes… I will…

_End_

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_This is a short piece I wrote for a creative writing assignment. There are parts I'm not happy with, but I do like the references. You should read this play, see it live if you have the chance, and rent the movie with Elizabeth Taylor and the other guy whose name I can't remember. It's very funny!


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